The other night I had a dream that I was with a bunch of friends on the side of New Salem Rd. I don’t know if we were having a roadside party or walking around but I had a feeling of general good times. Then in a cluster was an animal that was wounded somehow (hit by car?) The poor thing was quite obviously mortally injured. My friends however, were attempting to put it out of its misery by poking it with a stick you could roast marshmallows on. I think with palpable resentment “you useless fucking people†and go to get a big rock.
Yesterday my sisters and I are discussing a “what if†scenario one of the nurses and the social worker thought we may want to think about ahead of time. This is a grim possibility exactly on the tail of other information that was markedly hopeful. There has been now months of this rollercoaster. One doctor will say that mom has “not a slim but a good chance of getting off the vent†and the next day a nurse will ask my sister how long we intend to put her through this, implying that the doctors will not cease in experimenting with this or that to see if she can snap out of the myriad of post surgery complications she has. It seems that every week I am fluctuating between the imminent likelihood of losing my mom to bucking up for a long recovery for her. Of course what I want is absolutely impossible for the hospital staff to give me. That would be a clear direction of recovery or not, an immutable prognosis, a pass to get the hell off this rollercoaster of hope and dread.
So now during this discussion my father expresses his wishes that we be more inclusive of my brother in the discussions. My brother is difficult to talk with for a number of reasons. The task is like walking across an emotional minefield. My sisters both take a step back in the virtual like up of volunteering for this endeavor and look at me like I stepped forward. “Fine†I say and go to find my cell phone.
The conversation which happened about two hours later was simply awful. At the end of it I remembered my dream from the night before. Although I am completely capable of dissociating to do these stupendously nasty things, I am not feeling fabulous about it. After, I am a mess and a half.
This reminds me of the time I had to give Rebekah’s sister the Heimlich Maneuver at Fitzwillys. Marjorie was talking enthusiastically and eating. I think this was a dinner after a performance of Julius Ceaser we were all in and we were quite exuberant. Marjorie starts waving her arms and putting her hand up to her throat. It takes a few seconds for people at her end of the table to realize what she is saying. Oh Marjorie is choking, wait Marjorie is choking!! I catch a clue what it going on as Rebekah starts screaming for a waitress. “My sister is choking. My sister is CHOKING!!!.†I stand, calmly say “Rebekah! Shut up, I can do this.†I walk over to behind Marj, put my hands in the right place. My mind is hearing the instructor clearly “you need to use enough force on the diaphragm to expel the object, sometimes you will break a rib†and I pull hard. Thankfully not hard enough to get the ribs cracking. A cheese stick flies across the table, Marjorie’s color returns in seconds and she is seated and finishing her sentence like nothing happened. Chatter chatter chatter. At this point I am shaking uncontrollably and did so for an hour or more. I was inconsolable. Everyone remembers the jubilation of the cheese stick flying across the table; I only remember how ghastly it felt after. And I want to say please don’t ever make me have to do that again.
